


In The Snowdrifts

by rebooting



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Cults, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebooting/pseuds/rebooting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orsino exists without really living, on the streets of a too-busy city. Hawke is the Samaritan who befriends the strange near-recluse who watches but never attempts to connect with anybody. Both of them are in for more than they bargained for. Modern!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Snowdrifts

He watches more than people think. He's one of the invisible ones, the ones that most people prefer to forget, because if they think about the truth of the situation, they have to admit that they're _not_ doing everything they could, that there's injustice and imbalance, and most people aren't comfortable admitting that. They live their petty little lives and mouth platitudes about everyone having their place and don't even consider the fact that if that's true, if there's some higher power dictating where you go in life, that means that higher power has decided that thousands, _millions_ of people will be relegated to suffering through a sorry excuse for a life, always fighting to survive, never really _living_. Just existing.

Because he's one of the invisible ones, he _sees_ more than people think, too. They walk past, hurrying, uncomfortable around the living signs of the corruption of society, and he sees things, here and there. The tan line on that man's finger, and the way he unconsciously rubs it with his thumb; he hasn't been divorced for long enough for the reality of it to set in. The way that girl pauses outside a café just long enough for her friends to pull ahead, looking longingly inside, before glancing down at herself and then to her friends; they've been saying _something_ , even if it's just teasing, that makes her self-conscious about her weight. He can tell from the way sleeves are worn and hands stray to to curl protectively around arms, over and over, how many kindred spirits are out there, how many people who would look at him and understand what they saw, if only he weren't invisible.

He sees the dark-haired man working at the soup kitchen, too. Tall and rangy and good-looking, with an odd birthmark that most people would say marred his face. Dark red, like someone hit him across the nose, a line like a smear of blood. Orsino has seen that sort of mark before, but never so indelibly imprinted on the skin. He's used to it being painted on and washed off, not – _there_.

He can't explain why he _keeps_ watching, after the first night. He doesn't go into the soup kitchen, can't; they've got a chaplain there, a trained social worker, people who would _see_ , and he's more comfortable being invisible. Even when hunger gnaws at him, when cold bites as autumn turns chilly, he stays outside, because it's safer out here, invisible and hungry and cold, than letting himself relax. When he starts to forget that, starts to wonder if it would be so bad to accept help, his fingers creep beneath the ragged sleeves of the altogether inadequate jacket he's managed to salvage thus far and trace over the ridges of scar tissue, and he remembers. It's _not_ safe there.

But he still watches, and maybe he's been watching for too long, because the dark-haired man notices. Or maybe it's just that he notices the invisible people more often; Orsino has seen him sitting down with them inside, always picking out the ones who need to talk, somehow, or the ones who don't want to talk but need the comforting presence of a quiet, strong body between them and the world while they eat. Orsino has been fiercely envious of those people, sometimes, wishing he knew how to not need what they're getting, but even that hasn't been enough to pull him away from the relative safety of outside.

One evening, though, the dark-haired man joins him outside, crossing the busy road and crouching down in Orsino's doorway, where the heat vents out just enough to keep his fingers from turning blue. He's holding a covered container that steams in the cold, and Orsino can't help it; his eyes are drawn to the container, rather than the man. The man sets the container down on the stoop beside Orsino and digs into a pocket of his huge, heavy coat, thick enough to practically be armour, and takes out a couple of bread rolls, wrapped in napkins to keep them clean and warm.

"You look hungry," he says softly, and Orsino can tell he's trying to be gentle, but there's a hint of humour in that voice even when it's not _saying_ anything humorous. He's stating the obvious; Orsino knows he looks more than hungry. He probably looks half-starved to anyone who's used to eating regularly. And damn it, he can't stop looking at the container and the bread, trying not to think about how long it's been since he ate anything with much substance to it.

The dark-haired man settles on the ground comfortably, leaning against the wall, leaving Orsino plenty of space. He nudges the container a little closer, trying and failing to be subtle, and rests his arm on one drawn-up knee, saying, "I'm Hawke."

He gives his name so _easily_. Orsino swallows, eventually reaching for the food, unable to deny himself any longer. He'll pay for it later, when he's full enough that it's not an all-encompassing pain that makes it easier to forgo the _other_ pain, but he's starving, and he can't just have food within reach and not eat it. He's not that strong.

Soup, thick with pieces of ham and chunks of potato, smelling of fresher food than he's been able to choke down in _weeks_. It's simple food, but it's fresh-cooked, not out of a can, and it's hot enough to burn his tongue, but that's a welcome sort of pain.

"Hawke?" he asks through a mouthful of bread, raising his eyebrows. "Your parents named you after a bird?"

"It's my surname," Hawke explains, rubbing his chin. He's got the darkest five o'clock shadow Orsino has ever seen. "My first name's ridiculous, nobody calls me by it except my mother."

"My first name is _Orsino_ ," Orsino points out, only realising after the fact that he's given his name to someone, something he's never done before. Not since he started living – "rough", he calls it most of the time, but tonight it's hard to be that dishonest with himself – not since he started living on the street. He flinches, drawing in on himself a little, turning his attention back to the soup and hoping Hawke didn't notice the flinch.

"If I run into a Viola or a Sebastian, I'll send them your way," Hawke remarks with a smile. Orsino glances at him, startled; who would have thought such a rough-and-ready-looking man knows _Shakespeare_ well enough to reference _Twelfth Night_ off the cuff?

There's silence then, for a little while. Orsino eats slowly, reminding himself that if he gorges, he'll end up being sick later, and it's difficult enough to keep clean without adding the effort of cleaning vomit off his clothes. That thought almost puts him off his food, but he's not strong enough to set it aside, not when it's _right there_.

"You never come in," Hawke says eventually, softly. "I see you out here all the time, but you never come in."

Orsino shrugs awkwardly. "I don't like crowds."

"It's not always crowded," Hawke points out. "You could come in during the quiet period."

"It's not _safe_."

The words burst out without him meaning them to, and he flinches again, looking down at the container, surprised to see it mostly empty. He tears the second bread roll in half and uses the soft, warm inside of the roll to sop up the remaining soup, trying not to look at Hawke.

Hawke is quiet, for what feels like a long time, before he gets to his feet and lightly squeezes Orsino's shoulder, oddly comforting as he says softly, "Then I'll see you out here tomorrow."

He's been gone for five minutes before Orsino realises that he left his coat. Fingering the thick, heavy material, Orsino's free hand creeps under his shirt again, fingertips dancing over the ridges, and he starts to laugh helplessly.

 

 

Six days into winter, Orsino realises with a start that he's starting to get _used_ to Hawke's presence. Hawke comes over to Orsino's doorway every day, although what _time_ he arrives varies. He's always there early on Mondays and Thursdays, later on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, stays practically all day Sunday, and barely has time to do more than sit for five minutes and chatter while he watches Orsino eat on Fridays. And he always watches, even when he's doing his best to seem like he's not; Orsino can't decide whether that's creepy or endearing. When he's in a good mood – not that he's in many good moods these days – he decides on endearing, but he's not sure _why_ Hawke has fixated on him.

It's a Sunday, and Hawke has managed to cajole him into walking half a block to the little park nearby. It's not a very good park; it's more of a nature strip gone a bit wild. Scrubby trees, a couple of bushes whose flowers are an eye-smarting shade of yellow in the summer, a bench with a brass plaque that used to have a dedication on it. It's time-worn, the letters faded away, and Orsino sometimes feels far more kinship with a battered old bench than he has any right to.

He watches Hawke watching him as he eats, shifting uncomfortably each time a passer-by gets too close in his peripheral vision. He's wrapped in Hawke's coat, because the infuriatingly confusing man never took it back after that first night, and at least he's _warm_ , but he's not sure that's an improvement. Hawke seems to think it is, but Hawke doesn't understand the battlefield that is Orsino's body, the way it's safer to torment the outside so that the inside doesn't have the strength to rebel.

He's not strong enough to refuse, though. He can deny himself warmth and food when it takes effort to get them, even just the effort of crossing the street and going into the soup kitchen, but he's not strong enough to turn them away when they're right in front of him.

He sees more than people think he does, and he's watching Hawke already, so he sees when a spasm of pain crosses the other man's face and he follows Hawke's gaze to an older woman and a young man walking together, past the park. The similarity in their features and colouring say they're related; the same things say they're related to _Hawke_. The woman has Hawke's distinctive nose – or, Orsino supposed, Hawke has her nose. It's a strange realisation; he'd never thought of Hawke as anything but, well, _Hawke_. Belonging to and beholden to nobody.

He can't tell, this far away, whether they share eye colour. He hopes not. That shade of golden-brown should be Hawke's alone.

Hawke tears his gaze away from the two and gives Orsino a crooked grin, when he realises Orsino knows who he was looking at. He shrugs a little, saying, "My brother and I don't get along."

"And your mother?" Orsino asks before he can help himself. _Stupid_. Those sorts of questions are verboten; they never end well. Too many things go wrong in families for them to be safe.

Hawke doesn't seem as upset about his mother, though. He shrugs again and says, "Oh, well. He goes to church with her on Sundays, so I don't interrupt their day. I'd probably end up making some no doubt well-deserved smart remark about the sermon and making everything uncomfortable. I just wish Carver and I could spend more than half an hour in each other's company without it turning into a sniping match."

Orsino fidgets with his sleeve. What is he supposed to say? Comforting words don't come easily to him, never have. And he's never had a brother, not really. Oh, he's had people he was supposed to call brother, but they weren't drawn together by blood, not in that way. It's different, and he _shouldn't_ be thinking about it.

Hawke doesn't seem to want a response, though, looking pointedly at the cup of cocoa sitting on the bench between them, beside the half-eaten hoagie that Hawke had brought today. Orsino is beginning to think that Hawke _knows_ the food he brings is the only meal Orsino eats, and is trying to stuff him with thee meals' worth in one.

Hawke is _still_ looking pointedly at the cocoa, so Orsino picks it up and takes a sip, almost shuddering from the still unfamiliar luxury of a hot drink. The sugar is unfamiliar too, by now, sending a strange fizzing feeling through him, as though his blood isn't _just_ blood anymore but might be carbonated.

His fingers tighten on the mug – _that_ was a mistake, thinking about blood. He can see it now, thick and dark, welling up and spilling over and –

" _Orsino_."

There's a hand on his shoulder. Why is there a hand on his shoulder? Nobody has touched him in – since he started living on the street. Nobody wants to touch the invisible people.

Another hand gently takes the mug from him and sets it aside, and he's aware that there's something hot on his hands, hotter than the blood ever was, and there's still a hand on his shoulder, and –

"Orsino."

Hawke's voice breaks into the haze, and Orsino blinks at him, thrown out of his thoughts, his memories. The birthmark is still there, always there, like a smudge of dried blood that hasn't been washed quite off, and Orsino is transfixed by it until Hawke speaks again.

"Orsino."

His voice is strangely gentle, at odds with the jovial, often sarcastic tones he uses the rest of the time. His hand is on Orsino's shoulder, and Orsino is suddenly, painfully aware that he's trembling.

"It's all right," Hawke says softly. "Just focus on breathing, all right? We don't want you passing out, do we? Just think of how embarrassing it would be to have to be carried back to your – steps – by a great lumbering hulk like me."

"I shouldn't–"

Shouldn't what? Shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be accepting comfort, shouldn't be making it easier for the poison to well up again. Shouldn't want to cry at the thought of giving it up.

"Orsino." It's a whisper this time, said in a tone of voice that Orsino barely recognises: concern. Tenderness, somehow. But chiefly concern. Hawke swallows, whispering, "You don't have to go through it alone."

_You're always alone in the dark._

A laugh bubbles up through his chest like rot rising to the surface; he can't stop it. Can't stop the broken, jagged sounds that feel like they're cutting his throat to ribbons. He expects Hawke to back away; everyone does, when they hear him like this. Everyone.

But there's still a hand on his shoulder, and another holding both of his in his lap, and Hawke repeats, "You don't have to go through it alone."

Orsino stares at him helplessly, the laughter still breaking free and flooding over any response he might make, the dam in his chest broken and gushing poisoned filth. The sympathy in Hawke's eyes is unbearable, and Orsino staggers to his feet, aware that he has to leave. He has to leave before the filth inside him contaminates the park.

It's not a very good park, but it's the only bit of beauty in this city aside from Hawke, and Orsino knows it would destroy him to be the ruination of either.

 

 

Four weeks into winter, he's curled up in his doorway, shivering from more than just the cold. There's something in his chest, something that makes it hard to breathe and sends him into spasms of coughing every time he tries to inhale too deeply. His voice sounds more ruined than usual; it's rusty at the best of times, since he only really uses it when Hawke comes by, but now it sounds creaky and hoarse, a voice drifting up from a crypt, not something that belongs to a living being.

Perhaps his body is finally getting the idea.

He'd expected Hawke to stop coming by, after that day in the park. Had expected him to realise that getting involved with Orsino in any capacity was a bad idea. That expectation, like every expectation he's had about Hawke, has gone unfulfilled; Hawke brought him food the next day, and didn't mention Orsino's episode. Orsino knows that Hawke remembers it, though; he can see it every time Hawke looks at him with that troubled expression.

Hawke remembers more than Orsino does, these days. He's losing pieces of time, big black gaps appearing when he suddenly comes to in the doorway, shivering or overheated despite the cold, coughing yellow and red stuff into the gutter. He's pretty sure the red's from his throat, not his lungs; they feel congested, but he's sure he's not bleeding into them. He knows blood too intimately to believe that. Whatever the cause, though, the fever gets high enough that he goes into delirium, and it's not the gentle sort of delirium that he remembers from the commune. He always comes back to himself with bruises.

It's a Friday; he won't have to make excuses to Hawke for very long. Hawke never has much time on Fridays. And there, right on time, is the taller man crossing the road, bearing a foil-wrapped package and a thermos flask. Home-made, more than what he'd get from the soup kitchen. Orsino can't help staring at the flask, unsure whether he's looking forward to what's inside or dreading it.

This time, though, Hawke doesn't hunker down next to the doorway. This time he looks down at Orsino and there's something on his face, in his eyes, that Orsino doesn't recognise, not really. He thinks maybe he remembers it from a long time ago, but if he does, it's from before the commune, before everything went so horribly wrong. It's from so long ago that Orsino might as well have been a child. Or perhaps it's just from some old, long-forgotten dream.

"You're sick," Hawke says softly, and Orsino can't really argue. The stuff he's been coughing up is proof of what he's always known: that there's something poisonous inside him. Hawke is quiet for a moment, looking down at him, and then says, very softly, "Orsino, please. Let me help."

Help offered. It _hurts_ , the coughing and the fever and not knowing whether he's about to lose time or not. It hurts in a way that doesn't help him keep back the other pain, and he's so _tired_. Help offered, and he's too weak not to accept it. He's always been so weak.

He nods tiredly, and Hawke tucks the thermos and foil-wrapped package into his pockets before leaning down to help Orsino to his feet, saying, "We'll go to my place, and I'll have a friend take a look at you."

A friend. A friend of Hawke's, obviously, Orsino's brain says helpfully; _Orsino_ doesn't have friends. Not unless you count Hawke, and he's not even sure what Hawke is in relation to him, except _better_. Stronger.

A shivering fit takes him before they've walked more than half a block, and Hawke barely hesitates; he gathers Orsino up in his arms like a sick child, and maybe that's what he is. He's used to being called child, even if he hasn't been for – how long? At least a year. Maybe longer. Long enough that he can't remember _not_ feeling like this, like there's a huge piece of him that's been torn out and is slowly bleeding into his chest, filling it with rotted blood and disease. Not so long that he doesn't still miss being called child some days, doesn't still miss calling the others brother and sister and feeling as though he _belonged_.

Belonging is dangerous. That sort of safety gives the sickness in him too much freedom to come out, and he can't allow it.

Hawke's apartment is bigger than Orsino had expected, and that makes him feel pathetic, because it's not like it's even _that_ big, objectively. Two bedrooms and an open-plan kitchen-and-living-area, two bathrooms. There's a tiny garden in deep pots on the balcony, kept from the worst of the winter weather by sailcloth and – Orsino blinks. A _heater_. A space heater on the balcony, where it must be barely effective and rack up colossal bills, for _plants_.

He's starting to understand why Hawke offered his home so readily now. Maybe he's just like another plant to be tended.

Hawke carefully sets him down on the couch and says, "You can rest here while I call Anders. He'll take a look at you and tell us if there's medication you need or if it's something you're going to have to wait out. He'll probably bitch at me for dragging him out in this weather, but he's asking for it, going into medicine. He's just lucky I'm not going down there and _literally_ dragging his ass out in nothing but his boyfriend's shirt."

He rummages in his coat pockets and takes out the foil-wrapped package and the thermos, putting them on the coffee table next to the couch.

"Soup and herb bread," he says, a little awkwardly now. He moves away from the couch, turning on lights – not the ones directly over Orsino – and the central heating. "You should try to eat. Getting your strength up can't hurt whatever's wrong."

He shouldn't be here. But it was offered, and as always, he's not strong enough to fight it. He nods, wishing he could shed his body as easily as the coat that Hawke is even now hanging on a hook by the door. Maybe then it would be easier, if there was nothing to win or lose. Maybe.

"If you want to take a bath or anything later, there's clothes in the bureau in the spare room," Hawke says. His lips twist in a smile that's, thankfully, almost his usual mocking one. "They're my brother's, but I'm sure he won't mind you borrowing them."

Orsino is fairly sure this Carver _would_ mind, but he doesn't say anything. He's tired, tired of fighting, tired of _needing_ to fight, and he's certain Hawke doesn't know what he's getting himself into, but he's just so exhausted. He gazes at the coffee table blankly, thinking that maybe here he can just go to sleep and never wake up. That would solve everything, wouldn't it? The poison could have his body as long as he didn't have to be there with it.

Hawke hesitates, leaning down to squeeze Orsino's shoulder lightly before moving off into the kitchen, picking up a handset on the counter. Orsino's too tired to try to pay attention to the conversation, and before Hawke's finished speaking, he's drifting.

He rouses when the doorbell rings. Hawke's friend – Anders, the blonde supplies with something that Orsino supposes could be charm if Anders weren't so _sharp_ -looking – reminds Orsino uncomfortably of some of the other brothers. Intense, driven in a dangerous sort of way. There's a whip driving Anders, and Orsino doesn't know what shaped it but he knows the feeling of it all the same. The gentle exterior hides a _lot_ that he's certain Anders doesn't let anyone see.

He's equally certain Hawke sees it all, regardless of what Anders thinks, and that's the only thing that lets him tolerate Anders examining him, sliding a stethoscope under his shirt to listen to his lungs. Anders takes the time to warm the metal between his hands before using it, and Orsino appreciates that; he's shivering again, even though Hawke's apartment is the warmest place he's been in _months_.

Eventually, Anders is done with the examination, and retreats to the bathroom to wash his hands while Hawke gets Orsino re-settled. It's almost comical, watching the concern on Hawke's face as he tucks a blanket around Orsino, like asking him to move off the couch and into the spare bedroom would be asking too much. Anders is barely gone for two minutes, but Orsino is drifting by the time he comes back into the living room, his expression grim but hopeful. Orsino gets the feeling that Anders gets that expression a lot.

They talk at him, but he can't quite focus on the words. He's too hot underneath the blanket, and their voices merge together in a strange fashion. He realises, suddenly, that Hawke is kneeling in front of him, that Anders's hand is gentle and cool on his face, turning his head to turn his cheek to the light.

"How did you get that bruise?" Anders asks, and his voice is much, much gentler than it needs to be, like he's talking to a skittish child. Orsino frowns, lifting his hand to press his fingers against his cheek, and there's a bloom of pain over his cheekbone. It's _almost_ enough. Almost.

Anders and Hawke are still looking at him, and he realises that Anders has asked that question two or three times now. He shakes his head, saying softly – hoarsely, if he's honest, "I don't remember."

It's true; he doesn't recall. He's lost too much time to be certain when he got that particular bruise, or how.

Anders's lips thin as he presses them together, obviously trying to keep a rein on his temper. He nods eventually, getting to his feet and saying something about cold compresses and antipyretics and antivirals. Orsino lets him talk to Hawke, surrendering to the strange, hot, hazy sensation. It's strangely familiar; the commitment brews never made him feel this _hot_ , but they produced the same hazy sensations. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed that feeling of detachment, of depersonalisation.

By the time he comes back to himself, Anders is gone, and Hawke is preparing soup in the kitchen. Hawke is humming softly, and Orsino stays quiet, listening. It's a comforting sound, low and a little rumbly and not entirely in tune. The lack of perfection makes it that much more soothing, more _real_. Perfection was never real.

Hawke brings him soup and medication, and after he's finished both, Hawke helps him to the spare bedroom. It's larger than any room Orsino can remember sleeping in, but he doesn't have time to feel dwarfed by it. He'd suspect Hawke of drugging the food if he didn't know the other man would never do such a thing – at least, not without _telling_ him. Whatever the cause, he's tired enough that Hawke barely has time to close the door before Orsino falls asleep.

 

 

He recovers, slowly. Hawke is there every day to bully him into eating and taking his medication, and after the first few days, his strength begins to return. That scares him – physical strength means less time sleeping, less time away from the mire that is his life, and he's not sure how he's going to cope with the return to what he used to be. There are too many pieces missing for him to be that man anymore, and he doesn't know how to live without those pieces. Just existing had been almost too much for him.

A week after Hawke first took him in, he finds himself in the guest bathroom, standing in front of the mirror after a bath. He's still not strong enough to stand up long enough for a shower, but baths are an unexpected luxury, and one he can't help indulging in. After so long on the street, he has an almost pathological need to be clean, properly clean, even if he can never cleanse himself fully. His skin, at least, can be free of contaminants.

He's never grown facial hair quickly, and it's pale enough that it's not noticeable most of the time, but it's bothering him now. It _itches_. So he's standing in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped around his waist, a razor in his hand, and he can't stop looking at his arms.

Red lines wrap around his forearms, marks of his battle against his weakness. Just looking at them is enough to make his hands shake with remembered despair, remembered pain. Not the pain of the cuts; that was minimal, and bearable. No, the pain of knowing his failure, knowing the lives that had been shattered because of his blindness, and the pain of knowing that the weakness is still in him, still gnawing in his head, waiting for its moment to be free.

He can hear his heartbeat, _thud thud thud_ heavy in his chest, loud enough that he could almost think it was echoing in the room around him. He can hear the blood rushing beneath his skin, can almost _feel_ it in his veins, and he can feel the old, familiar, hated weakness beating at him.

_Orsino!_

"No," he whispers, shaking his head. He can see them in the mirror, almost, their faces in the steam, the ones he failed. The ones he left to Meredith.

_**Orsino!** _

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

The razor is a safety razor, the blade hidden in plastic, useless. His hands are shaking, and he needs it, needs to fight the weakness away, the memories. Needs something that's his.

He can't see through the blur, and the first scrape of the razor down his arm is worse than useless. Letting out a harsh, choked sob, he beats the handle of the razor against the counter, over and over, until there's a sharp splintering sound. Hot drops fall on his arm as he looks down at it and jams the sharp end of the broken handle into the flesh, dragging it across. Not down, not looking for a vein, not actively. Just looking for that line of pain, the only pain _he_ can call at will. Just looking for something that will drown the weakness.

"Orsino."

Hawke. Hawke's voice.

"Orsino. Let me in, please."

Please.

How long has it been since he's had privacy for someone to _ask_ to intrude on? How long has it been since he's lived somewhere that even has doors to lock, to be pounded on, to be between him and someone else?

"Orsino. Please open the door."

There's warmth trickling down his arm when he turns to look at the door through blurring vision. Hawke is _asking_. How long has it been since someone _asked_ him anything?

He can't leave the door locked. Not now. He reaches over to turn the lock, and moves back as the door opens and Hawke comes into the bathroom, moving against the wall so Orsino won't have to push past him as much if he wants to get out.

Hawke's eyes immediately go to Orsino's arm, and he grabs a hand towel and wraps it around the wound, keeping pressure. There's no judgement in his face, though, just bitter-sweet understanding.

"Talk to me," he says softly, as he fills the sink with warm water and gets a first-aid kit from under the sink, all without taking pressure off the cut. He sits Orsino on the closed lid of the toilet and unwraps the towel carefully, wiping the blood away with alcohol wipes, and listens as he works. Listens as the dam in Orsino's chest breaks again, but this time it floods words out, not poison.

He listens as Orsino talks about the cult, about how it seemed so innocent at first. They'd just wanted freedom to worship as they chose, without man's laws interfering in a spiritual matter. He'd thought it was harmless; he'd bought into the charisma. He'd lived in the compound with the others, with the brothers and sisters, and he'd drunk the commitment drinks, the allegiance drinks, the things that the Elders concocted and gave them to prove their loyalty. The things Meredith and Alrik said would lead them to true enlightenment.

True enlightenment looked a lot like abuse, when Orsino stumbled upon it one night. True enlightenment looked a hell of a lot like Alrik fucking a Sister who was too high to know she was being raped. When he protested to the Elders, true enlightenment looked a whole lot like constant surveillance, constant veiled threats about their concern that he was losing the faith.

True enlightenment, at the end, looked a hell of a lot like the younger Sisters and Brothers, the ones who'd been brought in when they had nothing else and seduced by Meredith's promise of safety, all sharing a commitment drink that Orsino only ever sipped because he could see the poison in Alrik's eyes, in Meredith's fervour, all sharing a drink that ended up with Orsino puking his guts up for hours and the rest of them cold and stiff on the compound floor.

"It's still there," he whispers, shaking. Hawke's eyes are fixed on his arm, cleaning the cut, but his attention is undeniably on Orsino. "The poison, it's still there. The . . . the longing for deeper meaning, for someone to make sense of it all. I can't get rid of it, but I can make it sleep for a while."

"Like this," Hawke says softly, rubbing his thumb over one of the ridges of scars. "Is that why you wouldn't come inside?"

"It's not safe to be comfortable. When I'm comfortable, it's . . . the poison comes back easier," Orsino says, shuddering. "Warm and full and safe – everything I thought I – it's not safe. Not for anyone."

"It's safe here," Hawke whispers, wrapping a bandage firmly around Orsino's arm. He washes his hands, and then wraps them around Orsino's hands, holding them firm and gentle. "It's safe to heal here, Orsino. You're not alone. You can _live_ , here. I promise."

Another sob chokes him, catching in his throat, but something about the way Hawke is holding his hands, something about the way Hawke has shifted so that he fills Orsino's vision, blocking out the blood on the sink – it's soothing, comforting in a way Orsino hasn't felt for years.

"You can live here." A subtle difference; an invitation. "You can stay here while you heal. Not just physically; you can stay here until you feel safe on your own. Longer."

This time, the sound that chokes him is a tiny laugh, one that's still half a sob, and he whispers, "Am I one of your plants to be nursed through the winter?"

"No." He flinches at the denial, but then Hawke leans in to softly kiss his forehead, lips warm and dry against Orsino's skin, and murmurs, "You're more important than a plant. You're my friend."

Friend.

People who just exist don't have friends.

Maybe, finally, in this place that always smells like soup and has a tiny garden being impractically coaxed through the cold by a man who looks like he'd be better suited to swinging a sword than wielding a watering can – in this place that has doors he can lock when he wants to, nothing to eat or drink that he doesn't see being made, a man who makes him feel safe without talking about belief or allegiance in return – maybe here, finally, he can begin to live again.


End file.
